


Rose Colored Glasses

by Black_Hole_of_Procrastination



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Cold War, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-05 05:06:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10298183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Hole_of_Procrastination/pseuds/Black_Hole_of_Procrastination
Summary: Margaery is certain that one of these days Snow’s brooding is going to get them all killed. (A 'The Man From U.N.C.L.E.' AU)Written for Day 6 of the JxSFF Valentine's Challenge: Pretend Relationship





	

FINALLY getting around to moving some of my tumblr fics to ao3. This was originally written for the JxSFF Valentine's Challenge. It is inspired by this lovely [edit](http://goodqueenalys.tumblr.com/post/150551704348/jonsansa-margaery-the-man-from-uncle-au-i) from [AliceinNeverNeverLand](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceInNeverNeverLand).

**Rose Colored Glasses**

**_The French Riviera, 1963_ **

There is a minute shift in Snow’s posture that sets every nerve in Margaery’s body on alert.

She takes a drag from her cigarette, her other hand inching discretely under her hem towards the piece strapped to her thigh. She does a quick scan of casino floor.

_The front entrance? Clear. The mark? Still seated at his table. And Sansa…_

Margaery’s finger drifts away from the trigger when she spots the source of Snow’s agitation.

Sansa is in uniform as one of the casino’s cigarette girls, peddling some of her wares to Sorensen’s lackies. The one closest to her says something that has Sansa giggling and grabbing onto his bicep for support.

Margaery looks back over at Snow who has murder in his eyes.

In the three months since Rome, Margaery’s grown used to this game. To the casual touches, and soft smiles, and lingering looks. Most of the time she is generous enough to let these little moments pass without comment, but as she watches the muscles in Snow’s jaw twitch, she finds she cannot help but have a little fun this time around.

“Careful comrade,” she teases in a low voice so that only Snow can hear. “Looks to me like someone’s moving in on your woman.”

Startled, Snow turns to Margaery, a deep furrow in his brow.

“She is not my woman!”

_No, that unfortunate honor falls on me tonight,_ Margaery thinks, idly twisting the gold band that sits on her left ring finger.

They are Mr. and Mrs. Anton Volkov this time. A bureaucrat and his blushing bride away on holiday. It wasn’t a cover Margaery was particularly thrilled about, but they were all consummate professionals…or at least they were most of the time.

She watches Snow now, the naked rage written clear across his face.

It’s a marvel that Snow’s survived so long in this line of work. He wears his feelings too close to the skin, too easy to be pricked and riled.

_Well perhaps that’s only true where a certain east German mechanic is concerned_ , Margaery thinks. She can’t blame Snow there. Sansa had a way of growing on you. Of making you care.

As for Snow? Well, Margaery’s tastes ran more in the direction of the leggy blonde hostess they’d passed on the way in, but she supposed she could see the allure for Sansa (if you went in for the whole dark and brooding type).

“Sansa can take care of herself,” Snow says, glowering towards where Sansa is now perched on the arm of the lackies’ chair. Margaery suspects this is said more for his own benefit than hers.

“Then let her do her job and you do yours Mr. Volkov.”

Snow is silent but properly chastened. He no longer stares openly at Sansa, instead resorting to the occasional cursory glance before focusing moodily on his drink.

It’s forty more minutes of feigned matrimonial bliss and keeping tabs on Sorensen when Sansa finally makes her way to their table on her rounds.

“Voulez-vous quelque chose, monsieur?” she asks Jon with an impish twinkle in her eye. She gestures to the tray strapped to her front, her black and gold pillbox hat set at a jaunty angle atop her head.

Snow scowls.

“I don’t smoke.”

Margaery hides the urge to laugh at his petulant refusal behind the rim of her martini.

A silent exchange of sorts seems to pass between the two. Snow looks at Sansa intensely…entreatingly. Sansa, for her part, at least has the decency to maintain the pretense somewhat, breaking away from Snow’s stare to turn to Margaery with the same offer.

“Darling?” Margaery lays a possessive hand on his sleeve. “D’you mind?”

Snow casts an annoyed look across the table at Margaery, before fishing out his wallet and passing a bill to Sansa.

“Thank you, pet,” Margaery coos, earning a scathing look from the Russian.

She accepts the proffered pack from Sansa. There is something tucked against it’s cellophane wrapping. Margaery deftly palms it, waiting until Sansa has sashayed her way to the next table before glancing at the scribbled on bit of cocktail napkin she now holds in her hand.

Copenhagen. 9:15.

_Good girl_. Margaery smiles. It seems their Nazi friend was in need of some goons whose lips weren’t so easily loosened by a pretty face.

Margaery finishes her drink before delivering swift kick under the table into Snow’s shin. Snow mutters darkly under his breath in Russian, drawing a few severe looks from neighboring tables.

“Sweetheart?” Margaery asks, the picture of innocence. “Will you take me back to the hotel? I’m not feeling well, and we do have that flight in the morning.”

Snow pauses, the meaning of her words sinking in.

“Of course,” he nods, rising to help her out of her seat. His hand finds the small of her back as he escorts them through the crowd towards the exit.

Margaery rolls her eyes when she catches the pitiful looks Snow casts over his shoulder at the casino doors as they stand waiting for the valet.

A familiar Jaguar MK9 comes skidding up to the curb of the casino’s circular drive. Margaery tries not to show her surprise when she recognizes the redhead behind the wheel.

“You were quick,” she comments blithely, sliding into the rear while a less dour looking Snow takes the passenger side.

Sansa shrugs, adjusting the rearview mirror. She is still in uniform, though she has forgone the hat and her hair now hangs in a tumble of curls.

“Well we do have a plane to catch, don’t we?” Sansa grins widely before flooring the car into motion, the twinkling lights of the casino fading away behind them.

 


End file.
